


Flickering Flames and Cinders

by Elfy (elfowlgirl)



Category: Thrilling Intent (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol, Character Study, Gen, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 02:11:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6781141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfowlgirl/pseuds/Elfy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zal has a drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flickering Flames and Cinders

**Author's Note:**

> Because everything Elfy writes turns into a character study, and he loves Zalvetta. Also, this fic is 100% speculation.

The bar is, for once, silent. He does his best to ignore the weight in his chest, the uneven pace that comes with every breath as it wracks his body as he all but collapses into an empty bar stool. The place isn't quite abandoned yet, but everyone seems content to brood, quietly, in their corners. The barman only turns to look at him as the first words slip from his lips, giving him a long eyebrow raise, though he dutifully turns to retrieve the kid’s order.

Zalvetta wishes bar stools had backs so he could collapse against one, a straining against his back and legs and shoulders assaulting him all at once as he stretches some. A small glass clinks at it smacks into the counter, contents well-poured enough to almost but not quite spill from the too-harsh movement. It takes Zalvetta a moment to realize that, while ordering the strongest alcohol the bar has is not quite unusual for a masked ninja with a glare that can pierce cloth, a short blond kid that seems to have had better days probably is. He shrugs and downs the glass of water sitting beside it.

He pours the shot into the now-empty glass and gestures to the bartender for another, taking the time his back is turned to reach into his left bracer, wincing as he sees the blossoming bruise there. "Not like there's a better place to store it," he mumbles as a thin vial slips out and into his fingers.

Another _clink_ of a glass and the second shot joins the first, then the contents of the vial. It takes but a moment for the sweet red tone of the drink to dye a misty brown, then slowly tinge with the vibrant green of the vial.

And then he downs the entire damn thing.

Zalvetta sits there for a moment with his head back and eyes closed, letting the fire trail down his throat and through his veins, even just the first hints of the buzz loosening the tension in his shoulders and calming the beating of his heart.

As he lowers his gaze he frowns at the now-empty vial, sighing and sliding it into his other bracer. “Stock’s finally starting to run out,” he mumbles. “I’ll miss these. Straight stuff doesn’t have quite the right kick to it.”

He takes a deep breath, basking in the fogginess in his head. Less the blinding, heavy, sharp he’s used to as much as gentle, light, sweet. All at once he feels so, so tired - never mind how, despite it all, he can still feel the ache buried in his bones, so deep that by now it’s as if it’s always been there.

He feels so very, very, tired.

Slowly he swings to the side and off the barstool, almost reveling in the sudden sense of peril as he wavers on his feet and the room tips, inches from spinning. A laugh slips from his lips, and though everyone else seems to turn their head however slightly to look at him, he doesn’t care. The bartender opens his mouth, and is suddenly silenced with a _look_ as he realizes, recognizes, the piercing glare that meets him through his Gold Clan helmet. The bartender puts the drink on his tab.

 _No one recognizes Horaven behind that stupid mask when that’s all that changes, but no, clearly a short blond and a masked assassin are obviously the same because of the way they_ glare. He sighs, and finds his way out of the Mole’s Tooth.

The sun’s light against his skin seems to alight the Gods’ Breath already running through his veins, the comforting blaze soon turning smothering. Zalvetta runs his hands along his arms, ever-cool fingertips spreading but the briefest relief. Each step against the stone is shaky and mechanical, though if anyone spares him even the briefest passing glance he doesn’t notice.

“Somewhere to sleep for the night,” he mumbles to himself. A few spots spring to mind, trees he’s less likely to fall from and hidden nooks all but impossible to find, discarding those too close to the city for comfort and those too far to see the lights of Xinkala at night. As strange as it was, knowing where the city was, where the people were, somehow seemed to make sleep come quicker. Whether it was because he had less to fear from sudden ambushes or something more like civilization’s nightlight, he wasn’t sure.

 _Why do I always end up rambling when I’m like this?_ He sighs. _Normally, sure, too much energy and not enough murder, but I could fall asleep on the road and not care._

Zalvetta bites back a smile. _But when is there ever_ enough _murder?_

Speaking of which…

He rubs the back of his hand across his face, wiping away some of the dried blood that’s settled there. “I can’t even remember if it’s mine anymore.” He takes another deep breath, smiling some as it comes much less uneven. With his other hand he runs a hand through his blond hair, shaking it out from its tangled mess. After a moment’s consideration, he pulls the ties from it and lets it drape unceremoniously down his back.

One of the locations he’d discarded would have to do - he was always quick to forget how soon the strength of Gods’ Breath hit, even as little as he’d taken to drinking. If there was anything he appreciated about alcohol - and definitely not the taste or the texture or the accompanying drunkenness and near-hangover come morning - it was simply how it eased him. How it seems to take the darkness from his dreams and wrap him in it, twisting memories and nightmares into the ashes of a fire, chasing away the blood that sears into his eyes.

Zalvetta can’t even make it _into_ the tree, exhaustion catching up to the alcohol as he collapses alongside it. He feels the bark dig into his shoulder and his head hit the grass, and yet he can’t help but smile as the ever-present spark in his chest begins to die, sending him off to sleep on a bed of smoking cinders.


End file.
